The Enlightened
by Amanda S. Hiaasen
Summary: Post Order of the Phoenix; Draco is at home.
1. Confusion

**C**onfusion

Disclaimer: All Harry Potter related indicia are copyright© J.K. Rowling. THEYARENOTMYCHARACTERS. Just the story is. Who'da thunk.

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The manor was far drearier than it ever had been before. Many of the torches had long since burned out and the cold stonewalls reeked with the stench of dishonor. For sixteen years the Malfoy Manor had been one of the most honorable and respected estates in all of Wizarding Europe. The Aurors has came and gone as they saw fit for the past month or so, and Narcissa had no say in anything they chose to meddle around with, nor did Draco. It was as though their house was an open door to all Aurors who thought they might have missed some valuable piece of evidence or clue one of the other hundred times they had searched the manor.

His father's study had been ransacked, there were papers tossed every which way, many of the thousands of books had been fiddled with and nothing was in its place. For a while his mother had tried to keep up the house, but as the frequent searches continued she just didn't have the heart to try and keep up the once regal manor.

Oh his poor mother. Narcissa was such a lovely specimen, physically and mentally. She had the brilliance and grace of a ballerina, the appearance of a goddess, and the life of a peasant. She deserved so much more than she ended up with. She only produced one child in her lifetime, and it was a pity it had to be him. He was so little, so greedy and proud, much like his father. It wasn't like he didn't love or appreciate his mother, but after seeing how his father treated her it rubbed off on him, his father taught him that the woman of the house needs no respect.

The crushed velvet, highly expensive chairs and love seats in his father's study now had soot stains on them, something that would have never been allowed had his father still been there. The rolling wood chair near his horridly messy desk was one of the only clean things in the room. Draco sat on that chair, his long, slender pale fingers rapping idly on the armrest of it as he thought to himself. This was all so surreal to him; it happened so fast. One day he was Draco Malfoy, the most feared and powerful student at Hogwarts. The next he was just something to laugh at. He no longer had a father he could run to when someone gave him any trouble. He lost his two oafish bodyguards; he lost his popularity even. He was worse than some putrid mudblood, and coming from him that meant something. Of course he still had his expensive clothing, accessories, wizarding items, and money in general, but he was slowly starting to learn that his money, no matter how much he had, could not buy his happiness. Even that dim witted Potter and his mudblood girlfriend were happy, and they had nothing (well, Potter had money, but not nearly enough to buy anything good..). Bloody hell, it seemed like everyone was happy. After all, they all knew Voldemort was back (they would have known sooner, but no one believed pretty boy "I cant tell a lie" Potter), and his own father, the ringleader of Death Eaters was safely in prison.

'Why me?' Draco wouldn't help but ask himself as he stared blankly at the unlit massive fireplace. 'What did /I/ do to deserve this?' Sure, he was rude, greedy, cruel, and even deceitful, but that wasn't any reason for him to end up this way, was it? Perhaps he just hadn't realized the errors in his ways, and at any rate he probably would never admit to being at fault to anything anyway. Arrogantly he leaned back in the chair as to prop his feet up on the cluttered wooden desktop.

At sixteen was he supposed to have to deal with the troubles most grown men never had to face? Things like a loss in the only life he knew. Granted he was still filthy rich, but everything he had grown to know and love had quickly dwindled away, it all left so fast that he didn't even have a chance to try and tighten his grasp on anything worth saving. Luckily most of the horrendous damage to his life was done at the end of the school year, giving him three months to try and gather the last bits of human sanity he still held dearly. He'd simply have to find somewhere else to confide in. Possibly work harder at Quidditch, or even his schoolwork. After all he'd have far more free time to do his studies in. Maybe there was still a chance that he could make something of himself – but what to make himself into. He couldn't' be an Auror, no matter how respected that position was, the Malfoy name had already been disgraced enough in one century. A Death Eater held no form of satisfaction to him. Nor did a professor, doctor, sales wizard, or merchant. He was so lost, and he had only two more years to find out what path to take. A lot can happen in two years.

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Authors Note: I had some inspiration to write, and this is what I came up with. A special thanks to Judi for editing this. Give me your thoughts. 


	2. Slave Work

**S**lave **W**ork

Disclaimer: All Harry Potter related indicia are copyright© J.K. Rowling. THEYARENOTMYCHARACTERS. Just the story is. Who'da thunk.

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The soft click of high-heeled shoes sounded through the study, and probably most of the manor. Narcissa Malfoy quickly paced through the estate, her slender pale hands on her hips, her tongue clicking occasionally as she eyed the mess her home was in. It was disgusting, a complete mess. "Draco!" She sounded, her voice shrill and rough as though she'd been crying again. "We're cleaning the house today, don't make any plans until everything is clean. I'm tired of living in filth."

And he wasn't? "Yes, Mother." He answered dryly. He hated cleaning. He /hated/ it with a passion, that's what house elves were for. Damned the Potter for helping free that ungrateful bag of bones that used to keep their house clean. It was so easy to take out his anger on someone else, especially Potter. Everything was his fault, after all. Everything. He wouldn't be in this nightmare if it weren't for him. Ungracefully, Draco removed his feet from his father's wooden desk and stood, his arms crossed as he looked around the massive study. Where would one begin when cleaning up books, general mess such as soot, and papers?

Lazily, Draco bent down and picked up a few plain books he would never have read. If the books weren't dark they were generally boring. The books were then placed randomly on the shelves. Back when his father ruled this study, the books were in alphabetical order by genre of the information they held. That took far more effort than he was willing to use. He could hear his mother bustling around the hallway with a charm to act like a muggle vacuum and suck up all of the dirt and grime from the expensive carpeting. The difference from the muggle appliance was that there was no physical labor needed, no bag to empty, and no visible piece of machinery, just a little tornado looking spiral, larger towards the floor and closed nearer the top. It was a rather convenient spell, really.

A few more books were randomly placed on the shelves, the titled sounding far less interesting as time went by. This was slave work, it was, and he was doing it. What a great way to spend ones day. It wasn't as though he had much else to do, and his mother did need all the help she could get anymore. Pity he wasn't seventeen for about another year, or he'd be doing as his mother was and cleaning via magic. But no matter, even if he didn't agree, physical labor was clearing his mind from the thoughts he had previously been thinking.

Narcissa poked her head into the room and lit the fire in the fireplace, "Throw all of the papers in the fire, no use trying to sort them, it's not like anything that matters is still here anyway." Most of the remaining papers were just scraps torn from books, some old newspapers, and random notes that didn't have any meaning. Having said that, his mother went back to the hall way and began straightening the large oil based family portraits on the walls, as a feather duster followed her dusting them all gently.

The study was slowly starting to appear like it had before. The floor needed to be cleaned, but his mother would have to do that. The books were all back on the shelves, randomly of course. The desk had been cleaned, and the marble top was now visible. Just when he started to feel like his work was complete, a damp cloth appeared on the table, his mother had other ideas in mind. Grasping the cloth, Draco started to wipe down the entire desk, as most everything in the room was covered in some form of soot or dust. His teeth gritted as he wiped down even the legs. Might as well do a good job, or he'd just have to go over it again. He then moved to the wooden chair and cleaned it, as well. The cloth armchairs and love seats couldn't be wiped with water, save the wood, which he did with a rather cold facial expression.

The final bit of dusting would come when his mother straightened portraits and let the duster dust them and the book shelves, as some were far to high to reach without magic or a small flight of stairs. "I'm done mother." He said coldly. He didn't mean to be so cold to his mother, as it wasn't her fault that things had turned out so poorly, but cleaning hadn't really warmed his mood.

"That's one room down then," she said in the same curt tone. "Clean your room, would you?" It was more of a demand, rather than a request. Without commenting, Draco left the cloth on the marble top of the wooden desk and left the study, the fire still ablaze in the back. Quickly, he rounded a corner down the now clean hall and went up a set of marble stairs and to the right, where his rather large dark bedroom resided. It wasn't exactly a mess, as he tried to keep it as tidy as he could. But it had a good amount of grime and dust.

Upon entering his room, Draco noticed that there was a metal bucket of soapy water, a sponge, some dry rags, and some damp rags. His mother had placed them there, in hopes that he would dust, clean the windows, mirrors, and anything else that remained dirty. She'd clean the floor by magic. He thought to himself as he picked up the sponge and doused it in the bucket. Wringing it out first, he started towards one of his windows and pulled the thick, dark shades open, allowing a flood of natural light flow into his room. It was summer after all, and no matter how evil the manor was, it was no exception to the sun's warm light.

As he started to wash the windows, he looked out to the back yard that his window faced. It was overgrown and looked more like a jungle than a back yard. Silently he made a mental note to hire a landscaper to make their yard look as regal as it previously did. He continued to wash the window, and then dried it with a dry cloth before moving to the second of four large windows. As each shade was opened, his room looked more and more comfortable and warm than it did when it was dark.

"Draco!" His mother's sharp voice sounded up the stairs and into his room through the open door. "A letter's arrived for you!" Who in their right mind would write to him? His friends weren't friends. It wasn't time for any school letters. Putting the sponge back into the bucket, he quickly walked from his room and around the corner, to the stairs.

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Edited by me, so expect some sort of error. :) 


	3. Hollow Threats

**H**ollow **T**hreats

Disclaimer: All Harry Potter related indicia are copyright© J.K. Rowling. THEYARENOTMYCHARACTERS. Just the story is. Who'da thunk.

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Down the marble staircases he went, his overly expensive boots clacking on every step and echoing throughout the manor. A black robe flowed behind him from the air moving against him as he quickly moved down the stairs towards an anxious Narcissa. Her countenance showed nervousness for the letter she held between her dainty, pale thumb and index finger. It had been a long while since they had received any mail, especially one sealed with black wax and a stamp of the Dark Mark. "Draco, it's from _them_," she uttered when he was nearing the last steps of the staircase. Her comment needed no other explanation, he knew who she meant. He had been expecting some form of contact from the people his father supported for some time since his father's arrest. They would try to recruit him, he suspected. When he stepped off the last step his mother presented the letter to him, and he grabbed it. Idly, he ran a porcelain digit over the wax seal, staring at it with loathe.

"_Open it!_" Narcissa hissed as her anticipation grew. A finger went under the envelope flap and slid sideways, opening the letter. He pulled out the letter and unfolded it and began to read it to his self, causing Narcissa to nearly snatch it from his hands in order to read it. "Don't just stand there, Draco! Read it aloud." Slowly, he began to read the letter to his mother, pausing at times to fully take in the words.

_Draco Malfoy,_

_Your lack of participation with the new plans disheartens us. Your damned father is in prison and you haven't even bothered to replace him for the time being – what a bloody ungrateful prat of a son you've turning out to be. Lucius brought you up among power and strength, and you've turned into a weakling even though all of his lessons._

Such a lovely way to start out a letter. Draco's expression was growing angry from reading. He did not like being insulted by people who had really no room to talk.

_We're getting him out, we have to. There is no one else that is qualified for what we need him for. We had hoped that you would have shown something promising, but so far we have received nothing from you. You are connected to us, Draco, by your father. Lucius isn't here to protect you from the evils and truths, boy, and you are not immune to our attacks. _

Their threats were hollow in his mind, and they held no real meaning and struck no fear in the teenager's heart. In his mind he was invincible, as many his age felt. For years he had had his father there to protect him, so he had nothing to fear.

_You must realize your Destiny, Mr. Malfoy. You were not born to live a normal life. You were born to follow in your father's footsteps and take your place next to Lord Voldemort when he takes power of the world. Mark my words, boy, there will be Hell to pay if you do not start taking pride in the things your Father was grateful enough to show you. Your father can't save you anymore._

The letter ended with more threats that Draco didn't take to heart. There was no name given of the Death Eater who had taken the time to write him a letter full of hollow threats and insults, probably out of fear of being intercepted. Either way, the letter didn't have the desired affect on Draco. It was sent to get him to join the Death Eaters, which he had no aspiration to do.

Narcissa on the other hand took their threats seriously, and by the end her expression showed great fear. "Draco, take heed their warning." She was never good at giving him advice, or advising him about what he should do. It wasn't her place to tell him what to do, it was always Lucius'. The teenager simply shrugged off the warnings, they were nothing. His father would be free soon enough and the pressure for Draco to take his place would no longer exist. It would all come in due time. Until then, he knew he wouldn't be killed. They _wouldn't_ kill a Malfoy.

After rereading the letter once more, he crumpled it up and tossed it to the ground. "Like they would touch _me_." He scoffed, walking towards the freshly cleaned study. Inside, he took a seat again in the wooden chair at the desk. Once in the chair he was able to lean back and prop his feet up onto the cleared desk top. His mind wandered on what the letter said. Did he secretly want to replace his father at Voldemort's side? Was the power he offered desired? Or did he simply want to be left alone to make the best of the last two years he had at Hogwarts? Maybe even make good marks and go on to further his education and make something of himself. He was torn between the right thing to do, and the thing that would gain him more wealth and power than he could ever imagine.

He reached into the desk drawer and took out a piece of parchment, a quill, and a bottle of ink. At the top, he put the date, and then started his own letter. It was full of blasphemous insults towards the Death Eaters, and even Voldemort. He of course had no intention of ever sending the letter, but it felt good to get out all his emotions and anger onto the paper. As he scrawled untidily, he smirked, thinking of all of the things he's wanted to say to them for ages. The letter began to grow until it was a good three or so feet long (far longer than any of his essays for school turned out to be) and full of insults. His anger had subsided by the time Narcissa entered the study, announcing that they would be having an early dinner, and that he needed to be in the dining room in ten minutes. She eyed the letter with interest, but refrained from inquiring about its purpose.

In roughly ten minutes, he closed the bottle of ink and pushed in the wooden chair in before going to the dining hall where the fresh scent of lamb filled the air. The letter was left unattended on the top of the desk as the ink dried.+

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Again, edited by me. Expect errors. (: 


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